


Crystalized

by autumnstwilight (sewohayami)



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Episode Ignis Verse 2, Fate & Destiny, Happy Ending, IgNoct, M/M, Omen Trailer (Final Fantasy XV), One Shot, Parenting mistakes, Soul Bond, Soulmates, canon character death, crystal magic soulbonds, implied marriage, secondary character death, this is a very weird take on the soulmate thing tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-28 22:58:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17796350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sewohayami/pseuds/autumnstwilight
Summary: As his infant son sleeps, King Regis dreams of a future prince and a lonely, bloodstained end to it all. Desperate to avert this future, he begs the Crystal to ensure that one of his son's companions will stay with him always. But the magic has a will of its own, and his simple plea has unintended consequences.(aka the Ignoct Crystal Magic Soulbonds Fic. I have put the Omen Trailer, Verse 2, and canon all in a blender for this and I am not sorry.)





	Crystalized

It was after Aulea passed that Regis began to have the dreams. A young man, clad in the black of royalty, stumbling through a vast desert. Though the youth was much older than his Noctis, who was only just beginning to shed the baby fat from his cheeks, he knew them to be one and the same. The young man looked around, with eyes as empty as the clear skies above him, as cold as ice. Leaning on his sword, he rose to his feet and pushed onward, following in the path of a dog who left no tracks nor trace on the silken sand. An elegant and noble creature, with a magnificent coat of pure white, but the shadow that stretched across the sands showed the beast hunched, jaws open and slavering as it trotted along with the mien of a starved wolf. And though the youth followed faithfully, Regis felt a deep sense of dread, knowing that the right path had been lost long ago, and buried under the shifting dunes.

When the time came, the wolf would devour the boy, far from the places that anyone knew. Blood and bone would be swallowed by the desert, never to be seen again.

He tried, in his waking hours, to put the dreams from his mind. He told himself that these nightmares were in some way, natural, a manifestation of his grief for his wife and his anxieties over his son’s future. It was to be expected.

And yet at night, when the yellow gaze of the wolf met his own, saliva dripping from a blackened tongue, he could take no reassurance in these thoughts.

The crystal hummed, an eternal, dim vibration like the aftershock of a struck bell. Perhaps he was the only one who could hear it. Still it teased at the periphery of his senses, a tune forever waiting for the next note. A consonance that never came. He felt that he could go mad with it, wondered if his ancestors had. The un-song spoke to him, warning him to be wary. To be vigilant. To be afraid.

The dreams were no mere anxiety. He held his sleeping child close to his chest, feeling his tiny ribcage expand and contract, the heavy and relaxed warmth of one who was not dreaming at all. The closer the wolf came, night after night, the more certain he was that this was an ill omen.

It had always been planned that Ignis Scientia, the firstborn son of House Scientia, would be the advisor for the next king, even before Noctis himself had been born. The boys would be raised together, and come to develop the trust and understanding that could only exist between brothers. Now that the boy had grown into a charmingly polite, well-behaved, and bright five-year-old, Regis saw no reason at all to change that plan. Rather, he found himself pushing for them to be introduced ahead of schedule.

“The boy hasn’t even begun his own schooling yet. What could he possibly advise your son on?”

“He will not need to advise yet. I merely hope that they can form a bond between them, one that will ever pull my son toward the light.”

It was done as the king said. The small boy peered up at him over thick-rimmed glasses, fidgeting a little with nerves. Perhaps he was not yet old enough to understand what he was being told about his role, what it meant for a king to push ever onward. What it meant to accept consequences. Yet he answered to Regis in a clear voice, and held out his hand to Noctis. The boys held on to each other tightly.

And the dreams continued. Again and again Noctis stumbled, alone on foreign battlefields, led astray by forces he didn’t comprehend. The wolf salivated over the blood spilled, waiting for him to fall. Where were the friends and allies that he should have? Would his son truly be left to face the world alone?

It was another year before he decided that something must be done. He took the boys deep into the Citadel, to the darkened room with the towering black vault. Here, the magic hummed louder than anywhere else. An electric blue danced at the corners of his vision. At the center of it all was a fearsome and unforgiving light.

The boys stood before the vault, hand in hand. Noctis seemed to shiver as they approached, and Ignis squeezed his hand, looking on with curiosity. Such a faithful and obedient child never seemed to suspect that an adult might do wrong, and therefore, he never seemed to fear as long as there was one around. He looked at the king with unblemished trust.

Regis reached out a hand to the Crystal, and made his plea.

_ Please give my son a guide. I know that the road will be hard, but do not let him face the trials ahead alone. Let the fate of this boy be forever entwined with my son’s, so that at the very least, they will always have each other. _

Threads of magic began to form in the palm of his hand, an answer. He drew them in gently, like strands of spider silk, and carefully twisted them, so that they became one. It was done. He swayed on his feet, momentarily leaning against the Crystal’s vault. The magic was heavy, even in its delicacy.

Ignis had not let go of Noctis’ hand.

* * *

 

The dreams never ceased, but they changed. He still saw Noctis, blade in hand, fighting an endless onslaught of armored soldiers. His hair still clung to his face with sweat, his chest still heaved with his labored breathing, his blood still splattered in spidery patterns across the ground. But his once cold and pale eyes had taken on a deeper shade of blue, a whisper of the crystalline magic in his veins.

At the end of the dreamscape, he confronted the wolf, and took its head as a prize.

* * *

 

It was not long after when Regis learned the truth.

He sank to his knees in front of the vault that held the Crystal, willing the images to vanish from his mind. His own hand, his own blade, his own son.

_ Chosen. _

The ring of the Lucii burned cold around his finger, and he had never wanted more to tear the thing off and shatter it with his blade, sink the pieces to the depths of the ocean, let the world be damned. What future, what light, what gods dared to demand his son as their price? He had borne every burden of his lineage without complaint, but this was a weight that threatened to break him.

His ancestors did not try to console him, merely reminded him of the fate they had each carried, one after another, for close to two millennia. Something so great could not be stopped once it was put into motion. It was meaningless to try. The Chosen would meet his destiny one way or another. The readiness was all.

The king wiped the tears from his eyes, swallowed down the taste of bile, and walked tall from the room.

* * *

 

His grief lingered, it was many months before he could so much as look at his son without the pain lancing through his heart anew. And so, it was even longer before he came to comprehend the cruelty of what he had done.

Noctis was playing with Ignis as usual, the older boy ever patient and kind, beyond anything Regis could have asked from one so young. He still held within his hand their twin strings of fate, though he had not looked at them since that day when he had first deigned to interfere. Noctis fell, and Ignis was there to help him stand, to brush the dirt from his knees and hands. Regis opened his palm to see, in his mind’s eye, what he had been avoiding. The two threads were irreversibly entwined, bound now by the will of the Crystal and not his own. Yet one thread now came to a short and clipped end, and beyond that, the other paled and frayed, miserable in contrast to how brightly it shone with its partner intact.

The guilt was sharp. He looked at the boy, a good and brave child, one he and Noctis already owed so much to. One who was already beginning to feel like a second son. He thought of Aulea, and the part of him that had been ripped away when she died. He thought of Noctis, and the all-consuming grief that would not only be felt by him, but which he had now condemned another to.

_ Ignis, I have done you wrong. _

* * *

 

There was little that could be done, except to hope that he did not err further. It had been a desperate and foolish mistake, one made by a new father out of love for his son. He hoped that the gods and ancestors would forgive him. He vowed to take it as a reminder of the power and responsibility that he bore.

His guilt over this matter, however, was forgotten in the wake of the Marilith attack. His sole focus, his sole wish, his sole purpose was to make sure that Noctis recovered. The world could not survive without its chosen king, he told himself. It was right, difficult but right, to sacrifice all else to ensure that Noctis was safe. That was how he silenced the knowledge that he himself could not withstand another blow.

They left the ashes of Tenebrae behind them. The future oracle had chosen to remain. He had taken Noctis and run, while she stood tall, refusing to abandon her home and brother. Stronger than any child should be. Would Noctis ever be able to live up to her? Would he?

By the time they returned to Insomnia, he had forgotten all about Ignis.

It was late at night by the time they returned, yet the boy was waiting. He appeared somewhat thin and tired, but ran to Regis’ side and reached up to hold Noctis’ hand, as he slept in the king’s arms. He took a moment to cling, one hand on Noctis and the other clutching and the king’s cape, and Regis allowed it, before taking him by the hand as he headed to Noct’s bedroom. When the prince was tucked in, Ignis crawled onto the bed beside him. After a moment, Regis cleared his throat to suggest that Ignis return to his parents, but the boy was already asleep. He sighed, and adjusted the blankets to cover them both.

* * *

 

And so it went on. He could hardly voice complaint about how inseparable the boys were, not when he had willed it himself, but it was another of so many things that filled him with quiet dread toward the future. Loath be it for him to deny their present happiness, ephemeral as it must be. 

Though his physical wounds healed, Noctis was never quite the same after the attack, and Regis was pleased that he had at least one friend to serve as comfort and support. He was also getting along better with the Amicitia’s boy these days, but their relationship was more push and pull. Gladiolus taunted and cheered Noctis in turns, drawing determination from his complacency. On the other hand, Ignis provided him with quiet counsel and a listening ear. He also seemed eager to take on a wide assortment of tasks for the prince, despite the fact that some of them were for Noctis to do, and others could have easily been left to the servants. He was never intended to be a maid, and yet he cleared up Noctis’ things without complaint, dipping into a bow and responding, “It’s no trouble at all, your Majesty,” when Regis attempted to discourage this habit. He practically had to give the boy a scolding, saying that it was imperative that Noctis learn to take responsibility for himself. Ignis finally relented, thought Regis suspected that he was still coddling Noctis in private and taking the fall for his son’s errors, though he could never prove it.

It was only a short time after Noctis had begun his first year of junior high. The prince attended school in a well-off and safe neighborhood, but it was a public school nonetheless, so that he might learn a little of life outside the nobility, and sympathy for the common people. Or such was the official reasoning. The true reason was so that, even for a short time, he could experience a carefree life, to the extent that it was possible.

Ignis, on the other hand, worked near from dawn to dusk with private tutors not bound to traditional school hours. Not all of the blocks in his schedule were full, but it was understood that the majority of the empty ones would be devoted to self-study, and the remainder to the prince. It was a schedule that an adult would find punishing, and yet, at fourteen, he seemed to be thriving under the pressure. The only hint to the contrary was the ever-present can of black coffee beside his stack of books. 

Consequently, Regis was surprised to hear that the boy had requested special permission to begin training with the Crownsguard.

“He's absolutely determined,” said Cor. “I’ve turned him down five times already. But he made me promise to ask you. Says he won't let it interfere with his education or other duties.”

Regis raised a hand to his temple. “I am less worried that he'll neglect his duties than I am that he will neglect himself. He is barely more than a child.”

“He is,” said Cor, “older than I was when I joined. Which he has pointed out to me. Repeatedly.”

“You are…”

“An exception, your Majesty? A special case? You know I don't buy into that ‘Immortal’ bullshit, pardon my words. I am lucky, no more.”

“What would you have me do?”

“Let him give it a shot. If there’s any trouble, I’ll find a reason to turn him away. But gods know I wish all my cadets were this determined.”

It was a few months before Cor admitted, with a hint of sheepishness, that there could be no reason for turning Ignis away from the Crownsguard that would not be an obvious and utter lie.

* * *

 

It had been quite some time since Regis had seen Ignis close up, perhaps not surprising since even meetings with his son were becoming far rarer than he would have liked. But he knew that Noctis would be training today, working on mastering the art of warping. He had decided to make a show of support and encouragement, also wondering if his physical proximity would provide a boost to Noctis’ magic. However, it was Ignis that he saw first.

He seemed to have shot up by at least six inches overnight. His shoulders were much broader, and he had definitely put on some muscle, in contrast to the gangly and bookish look he had had before. When he bowed to Regis and greeted him, his voice was jarringly deep compared to the light, boyish tone the king had become so used to hearing when he and Noctis played together.

Regis nodded and smiled thinly through the abrupt awareness of the passage of time and how damnably old he himself had become.

He gave Ignis a nod and gestured for him to return to his training. The young man seemed to be working through a set of drills with the lance, repeating the same pattern of strikes and parries over and over, each set such a perfect imitation of the last that it could have been a recording set on loop. Regis could find nothing to fault in his form, except for the rather ostentatious twirl he gave the lance before dismissing it in a shower of crystalline sparks. Impressive looking, but impractical, the sort of thing so many young fighters would learn a hard lesson about at the hands of a mentor or, if they were unlucky, a foe.

Noctis and Gladiolus had entered the training hall just prior, and Ignis glanced over as if he had been aware all along, and the showy maneuver was for their benefit. Having finished with his practice, he retreated to the back of the hall to wipe his face with a towel and drape it over his shoulders. Gladiolus had been expecting the king, and so he gave a bow before taking his place as the instructor for this session. Noctis spent several long moments staring in his father’s direction before also getting into position, summoning a blunt-edged training sword into his hand.

“Noctis.”

His son turned to look at him, with an expression that was vulnerable for a moment before turning guarded, a feigned teenage disaffection.

“I’m here to help, if you will let me. Show me what you can do.”

Noctis gave a cocky, half-grin, “Don’t need help. But I’ll show you.”

And he was off. The warp was clumsy, heavily telegraphed, and fell short of the target, earning him a whack over the head with Gladiolus’ wooden training sword. He barely caught himself before his face hit the ground. But it was indeed a true warp strike, perhaps his first. Gladiolus was pulling Noctis to his feet with a broad grin, and Noctis too was grinning while rubbing his presumably bruised scalp.

Across the hall, beyond the shimmering trail of magic and the fading afterimage, Ignis was staring back at them, the light of the crystal reflected in his eyes as though he were transfixed. When he realized that he had been noticed, he quickly turned away. But to Regis, he had already betrayed himself.

* * *

 

Regis was not one to act without consideration. He had, after all, learned something from his younger days. He waited for another opportunity to drop by a place where he knew the boys would likely be, and observe their interaction for a while before greeting his son.

He watched them cross the courtyard together. Ignis was immaculately dressed as always, something that became even more apparent when it was Noctis standing next to him. He carried himself well, with better posture than half the dignitaries and nobleman Regis had seen. He was alert and protective, and that perhaps was a result of his training. But there was something else in the way he was just a shade closer to Noctis than necessary, the way he reached out to steer and guide him, though his hand rarely touched, in the way his gaze always strayed back to Noctis, though never when Noctis was looking. And in the way his overly serious expression gave way to a clumsy but brilliant smile when Noctis placed a hand on his arm and addressed him fondly.

“Thanks Iggy. I’ll see you later.... Hi, Dad.”

The suspicion that had been lurking since that day in the training room was confirmed. The boy was  _ smitten. _

* * *

 

He could not shake the feeling that all of this was his fault, though he tried to persuade himself otherwise. He had asked the Crystal to give Noctis a guide, not for…  _ this. _ It was likely simple happenstance, a passing teenage fancy and nothing to do with magic. But his heart was heavy, as he called Ignis aside after a Citadel meeting and waited until all others had filed out of the room, filling the time with chatter about Noctis’ exam results, training and diet. When they were alone, he broached the real topic of this discussion.

“Ignis. I imagine that you are aware of this, but now that Noctis has grown older I must say it out loud. He is my only son, and likely destined for a political marriage. You understand how precarious our situation is, and how few options for negotiation are left to us, so I will not impress them upon you.”

Ignis nodded, serious and attentive as always, with an expression that said he was waiting for what would be said next.

“I understand that teenagers will do as teenagers are wont to do. However, in light of the… circumstances, I feel that Noctis becoming involved in any serious kind of, should I say,  _ romantic _ entanglement would be undesirable, given that it will likely be brought to an end by events outside of his control.”

He could tell now, that though Ignis’ expression was still impassive, there were feelings brewing just under the surface and kept away from the light. His jaw had tensed, his fingertips had gone white from the pressure on the stack of paper in his hands.

“I know and trust that you have no desire to see him hurt. Do take care to guide him so.” Regis said this as gently as he could, but found himself unable to meet Ignis’ eyes for the pain he might find there.

“Of course. Your Majesty.” Ignis’ voice was level, but his tone bore the fierce protectiveness it always did toward Noctis. Regis knew he had achieved what he had set out to do, Ignis would defend Noctis from his own feelings as fiercely as he did anything else. And hopefully, that would save the both of them at least a small measure of pain.

Dismissed, Ignis bowed and left the room. When the door closed, Regis sank into the nearest chair. He hoped that some day, doing the right thing would  _ feel _ right.

* * *

 

Time ran thin, and the day and hour of their parting drew close. He stood on the stairs before the Citadel, hoping that someday, Noctis would understand his words, along with all the things he was unable to say. And perhaps that he would be forgiven.

At least, by the time his powers finally failed and Niflheim-made weapons tore his body apart, Noctis would be far away and safe.

* * *

 

The crystal realm was a cold place where he sat, silent and vigilant, waiting for the destined hour. The minds of his forebears bled into his own, their hearts unmoving and unmoved, single-minded in their duty to the soul of the star. His first act here had been to beg for the life of Nyx Ulric and the future of Insomnia, and he could not help but feel that among these ancients, he was seen as a foolish and sentimental child. If so, then let him be. They had been separated from human concerns for a great time, and had forgotten. He would remind them then, of compassion. The Father King was also a role that must be played.

The next to arrive was not his son, but a stumbling figure, drenched, shivering, battered from head to toe. But his gaze was fiery, and his voice clear and ringing in the void. Regis would have known him anywhere.

“Kings of Lucis, lend me your strength!”

Along with his own horror, the merciless judgement of the Mystic rose in the back of his mind, he knew that the Founder King would strike before it happened. He allowed no intrusions by the unworthy. Ignis was screaming, clutching his eyes, yet trying desperately to utter the rest of his plea. Regis held up a hand, knowing the Mystic would sense his intentions.

“Let us hear him.”

“He has no part in this. Merely another mortal begging to alter the future for their own shortsighted ends.”

The Mystic paused for a moment.

“One who has already touched the light of the Crystal with vulgar hands. A second intrusion will not be forgiven.”

Surrounded by blue flames, Ignis’ eyes were wide with pain and terror.

“It is my fault,” spoke Regis, and the other Kings of Yore shifted. “Do not judge this boy for a wrong which I myself committed.”

The Mystic allowed Ignis a moment of respite, and the young man struggled to catch his breath. His head turned to Regis, and the Father King spoke.

“I, too, sought to save the life of my son. I took their fates and bound them. You know that it was I who made the plea. He could not have, could never… He was only a child.”

“Worldly foolishness. You have shamed us.” It was the Rogue who spoke.

“I am not asking you to forgive  _ me. _ ”

And then came Ignis’ voice, ragged but unbroken, “Ardyn…”

Regis tilted his head toward the Mystic.  _ "Oh. _ It seems we have your  _ brother _ to thank for this. Shall we not aid in this battle?”

The Mystic shifted, then drew himself up to full height.

“It is our duty to fight against the Immortal Accursed. We shall not let this opportunity pass us by. However,” he lowered his head toward Ignis, “the price will be paid. By this boy.  _ You _ have nothing left to give.”

“If it must be so…” Regis sighed, accepting.

Ignis looked up at the Founder King, breathing heavily but undaunted, and Regis felt a surge of pride amidst the relentless sorrow.

“If it costs my own life to save him,” he spoke with the weight of an oath, “I will pay that price.”

A myriad of emotions rose and overlapped. The satisfaction of the Mystic, the battle-hunger of the Fierce, the rebelliousness of the Rogue, the protectiveness of the Just, the sentiment of the Oracle, the serenity of the Wise, the resolution of the Warrior, the dutifulness of the Pious, the determination of the Conqueror, the readiness of the Clever, the acceptance of the Wanderer, the loftiness of the Tall.

The love of the Father.

Regis knelt before Ignis, leaning forward so as not to tower over him. The young man looked fragile, pale, small. He saw his own blue light shimmer across Ignis’ features, shining back from his eyes and catching in his wet and mussed hair. He reached out a single fingertip to brush that hair aside. Ignis looked up at him, unflinching.

“Your fate is not to die here. The Ring will take a toll on your flesh, the power  _ will _ exact its blood price, and I can do nothing to stop it. But fight well, and your life will not be taken from you.”

Ignis placed a hand over his heart and bowed in response. Regis continued, knowing that he had but one chance to make things right.

“I am afraid that I must seek your forgiveness. Long ago, I sought to change my son’s fate, by altering yours. I fear that all I have done is placed a thorn in your heart, one that will cause you much pain. I could not undo my mistake then. I can now.”

Ignis’ gaze faltered for a moment, and he appeared to be searching for words. When he spoke again, his voice was as bold as always.

“Your Majesty, with all due respect… That thorn, as you call it, is the most precious thing that I have in the world. I will not give it back.”

He smiled for the first time since he had arrived in this strange place.

“I remember that day, when I stood in a place not unlike this, and the spirits asked me if i would stay with Noctis forever. If I was willing to die for him. My answer has not changed. Nor will it ever.”

Regis spoke again, “You were merely a child. You never should have been asked. Not to change your own fate.”

“Be that as it may. But if I may speak frankly, I don’t care  _ why _ I love Noctis.”

And there was the fierceness, stripped down to its core.

“Had I never touched this fire… had our paths diverged, I have no idea who I would have become. That man is a stranger to me, and one I rather pity, knowing what he has missed.”

The expression on his face, in his voice, was so tender that it seemed it might break if it were touched. 

“Leave the thorn in my heart. Let the fire consume me. That’s all I ask.”

“Very well,” said Regis, and rose to his feet, stepping back to join the other Kings of Yore. “The battles ahead will be hard, and the road long. But I have faith in you.”

Ignis bowed once more, and while his face was hidden, Regis spoke.

“One last thing. Whatever form your love for my son takes, you have my blessing to pursue it.”

He looked up, surprise flickering across his expression like the firelight, and then he was gone.

* * *

 

When Noctis arrived, he was alone. Even the Kings of Yore did not convene for him, there was no need to pass judgement on one who possessed the birthright to use the Ring. He could not hear the voices of his ancestors, only feel the cold flame settle into his veins. Ever so slowly, the power would chip away at his bones. But the wolf was at his heels now, and so he had to struggle forward, lest he fall and be devoured.

_ I am here, _ said Regis, and hoped that he sensed it. Noctis gathered strength, and moved forward, the Sword of the Father held tightly in his hands.

Despite all of his efforts at averting it, the dream had come to pass. Fate could not be defied, or perhaps their enemy was simply too great. The only hope, the only one that there had ever been, was that Noctis would be strong enough to do this on his own.

There was both pain and pride in watching him battle. His was not the steady, unshakable determination of the others who had worn the Ring of their own free will, but the hesitance of a child bearing a mantle that was far too big for him. He faltered, he trembled, he stumbled. But he did not give up.

And when the jaws closed around him and all seemed lost, it turned out that he was not alone after all.

* * *

 

When Noctis was drawn into the Crystal, Regis saw all of it through his eyes. There was nothing here but the endless reverberance of the Light, and so Noctis’ memories spilled like ink to color the void. His doubts, his pain, his fear. The knowledge of his final destiny that Regis had withheld from him for so long. Lunafreya, sinking to the depths. Ignis, scarred and helpless. Ravus, twisted into something cruel, far beyond anything Noctis would have wished on him.

And beneath that, over that, woven through it all, love, love, love. Every moment spent with his friends shining in bright fragments. Every word, every touch, every smile, every laugh. He loved with the fury and intensity that only mortals know, when their love must come to an end. It put the brilliance of the Gods to shame. Perhaps this was why their Providence was to be borne in the hands of a man.

“The Light waxes full.” 

The new king departed on his final journey.

* * *

 

Threads of fate twisted and twirled as if blown by the wind, endlessly fluctuating possibilities. Like spider silk, they were so thin and pale that they could only be seen in the brief moments when they caught the light, and like spider silk, they were far stronger than they appeared. Even the gods could not read nor predict these undulations, as one could never count the waves on the sea, and so they handled them indelicately, slicing through the web with flames and blades and claws to serve their own ends, heedless of the lives torn by their weight. But the severed ends still shimmered, and after exploring a thousand thousand possibilities, they caught and held fast.

Two threads converged and shone bright.

* * *

 

The power had passed from the Ring, and the souls contained within freed to their eternal rest. Their duty complete, they seemed to bear no further interest in the living world. Regis lingered, still new and human, bound to the world by the loved ones that dwelt there.

This was the future that so many had lived and died in service of. He wanted to see it, at least for a moment. The world was battle-torn and weary, but it basked under the warm light of a sun that would never again be blotted out. Flowers bloomed from the cracked roads, and still waters gathered where the earth had been torn.

He followed then, along with Noctis, through the halls and courtyards to be rediscovered, their aching familiarity and strange novelty after so much time. The throne room was bright with the sunlight that fell through the missing wall, laying bare the tattered and faded interior. Motes of dust spun their winding dance on the air. 

Noctis wasn’t alone. The blue magic had died with the Crystal, and Regis could no longer see the threads of fate, whether they be bound or unbound. Yet Ignis remained, as did the old scars that marked an offering willingly given. He bowed in service, in loyalty, in affection.

The new King rose from the throne and went with him, falling in step by his side. The light fell across their shoulders in an echo of the first time that Regis had watched the prince and his advisor leave this room. As they walked, Ignis slipped his fingers between Noctis’, ungloved hands revealing the matching scars of the Ring that they bore.

In the garden, there was a confession. An vow. A kiss. The rest was not for him to see.

**Author's Note:**

> Whew. There we go.
> 
> How exactly they survived, and whether or not Ignis is blind in this combined timeline is an exercise left for the reader. Partly because I couldn't make up my own mind, and partly because Regis never finds out those things either.
> 
> (Personally I feel that XV lore implies magic cannot be wielded by humans without a physical cost, and therefore Ignis and Noctis both paid some kind of price. But they're alive and together, so they don't mind the scars too much.)
> 
> ANYWAY, tomorrow is my birthday, sooo... if you would like to help me celebrate please comment with a line or part of this that you enjoyed! (kudos and bookmarks/recs are also always welcome)


End file.
